


yellow bellied

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [84]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Arguing, Gen, Other characters mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: There's always a fight happening somewhere.
Series: DS Extras [84]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 14





	yellow bellied

**Author's Note:**

> Some mild vent/rant feelings I get when I play online on official servers...
> 
> I'm, not particularly good at communicating.

He didn't know how they had even gotten into this argument, if it was even an argument in the first place!

Loitering about camp for a few extra minutes, that was all, taking a moment to just, just-

-allow in a moment of peace, that's it! Just a couple of seconds, a few minutes, and then he'd be on his way again, ordering the shadowy doppelgangers of himself out to take down trees, dive into the caves and mine as much gold and gems as he could get out of those horrid tunnels, tear down a few spider nests and spitefully nurse his own wounds with what he himself had gathered, not, not what the lot of the others had stashed at camp-

It was entirely wasteful, in a way, but as if he was going to curl in on himself like some pitiful mouse and be _scorned_ for it! Sleeping here was offensive enough, apparently, and while he worked on camping out alone in the darkness of pitch black night every once in awhile Maxwell had to make his way back here and collapse, exhausted, in the pitiful excuse that was his tent on the outskirts. Sometimes, that vague feeling of, of-

-of _company_ , background and hostile as it was, rubbing to his nerves like sandpaper, was enough to draw him back in and soothe that horrid _aching_ thing that was still left in his chest.

But of course, of course that just wasn't _viable_ enough, not enough _reason_ or _excuse_ for him to be here. His presence was a lingering storm cloud, apparently, a malignant dull fog that everyone, just _everyone_ couldn't bloody deal with-

-and now he was being confronted by the fact that he had even _dared_ to think, to believe he could have a few moment's peace and safety from the oh so harsh and bastardized world he himself had created!

"You've been nothin' but dead weight these past few days, and now you've got the nerve to just do that nothing in front of everybody?!" 

He was already lingering on the fringes, had taken so many measures to distance himself from the lot of their blasted disgusting company, but despite his efforts the damnable firestarter got it into her head to confront him and start yelling and shouting about 'freeloaders' and 'fairweathers' and 'opportunistic', with a fat lot of curses to back her words up, and Maxwell was going to have _none of it._

" 'Oh, lookit me, weak old fart that can't take care of himself, better take advantage of the good people and suck 'em dry of near every resource-' "

"That is not at all true, you lying wench! I've been working out there for _days_ , gathering rocks and wood and that damn gold you lot are always complaining on the lack of, and I will not be smeared when I have been doing just as much, perhaps even more than _you_!" 

His hiss startled her out of her theatrical mockery, but even at his own toned down, barely contained rage and frustrations Willow seemed to find it all too funny, red flared face flushed with excitement and aggression and her own mania that had her curl a crooked snarly grin back at him.

"Oh yeah, _right_. That's whatcha' been doing, dragging yourself out of here and then dragging yourself back with a little ol' pack of junk-"

"If you are calling logs and stone 'junk' then I highly doubt-"

"Pfft, get over yourself Maxwell!" Her voice cut him off, snagged the words in his throat as she actually used his _name_ for once and not some crude moniker, but the flare up of misplaced connection evaporated immediately as she continued on, sharp chuckles of laughter following her words as the snide tone drew razor thin and dangerous, threatening. "As if you're the one keeping us all afloat! You've got some fuckin' nerve, thinking you're doing it all, that you're the reason we're all still alive!"

She took a few steps forward, shook her head wildly, but for all her erraticness her voice held the confidence and assuredness of someone in complete control of their mentality as she invaded his circle of space.

He ended up flinching back, ever so slightly, a minor step backwards as she flung out a hand and jabbed a finger in his direction, and the grin on her face was crooked and near humorous but it was oh so very cruel underneath.

"Oh lookie, old bastard thinks he got us a bunch of logs? Well, Woodie got back _hours_ ago and he's got us a forest! Oh, what about rocks and shit, huh? Oops, Wolfgang and Wx78 just got back from the quarry, that's all covered!"

She took another step forward, then a few more, inching closer as her stance shifted, the aggression growing thicker in the air as her hands curled into fists, as she glared up at him and radiated the heat and flames of a raging fire. 

"Oh, and that precious gold you were just complain' about? Wilson went out and traded with the pigs just yesterday, got us enough to last till _next_ autumn, not your measly little piddle of shit that you dragged up from the caves." 

She stepped up closer, flames in her eyes and hair wild and yet all mentally there as she glared up at him, hatred and rage past the boiling point, and he knew she hated him, of course he did, everyone in this bloody hell of a place did-

-and he knew, perfectly well, that Willow wouldn't think twice on killing him. 

She's done it before, and she'd do it again in a heartbeat.

But, at this point, Maxwell was _done_ being treated this way.

"You don't do jack shit here, fuck face, and you know it. You eat our food and use our stuff and don't do nothing else to help out, just fiddle around with your fucking magic shit and go 'oh, look, I'm helping, I've fucked up your lives and now here's a little amulet for your troubles, that'll sure fix what a major fuck up I am, everyone'll love me then-' "

The shadows manifested in one shiveringly silent move, clasping hot pins and needles to his arm and hand from the speed and mental dizzy drain that had tore through him, but his decision was final and the dopplegangers crowded behind his back, loomed forward with their shadowy swords and harsh, barely there whispers, and his own weapon slithered and nipped and gnawed on his hand, where the handle met glove, tickling oily shadow fuel in flickering flames and drops, and, for the briefest of moments as Maxwell straightened up, wielded the pure power and control of the shadows surrounding him, for the briefest of moments-

-Willow had a flash of genuine traumatic terror flash over her face as she stumbled back.

It was the most satisfying thing, deeply nourishing to the core of whatever pitiful shadow was left of himself, and it spurned him onwards in a brash flush of confidence and power.

Something he's so long forgotten he had once commanded.

"I will not stand by while you spout your absurd _lies_ and attempt to desecrate my image. As if _I_ haven't been contributing at all to this mess of what you call a _camp_." The shadows encouraged him, thrilling and excited and oh so powerful for once, for so briefly a moment; the Throne was so long in the past he has almost forgotten the taste of it and what it had given him, and when Willow stumbled another slight step back, the surprise and shock and briefest faint fear clouding her face, it sent a giddy flare up his spine and snarled his face into his own crooked, bared teeth grin. "If you wish to keep at it, firestarter, then so be it."

He leaned forward, and for such a shallow moment it almost, _almost_ felt as if he had never left the Throne at all.

"But I recommend otherwise, pal."

For the briefest second Maxwell felt like a King again, that commanded fear and power and control over a situation, looming over some idiotic pawn and giving them an ultimatum that was never in their favor, deals that never gave them what they wanted. It was wonderfully uplifting, after months of living like some scapegoat outcast that depended on the group for the bare minimum and yet still scavenged for the lot of them each and every day. It filled his hollow chest, for the first time in a long, long while made the sadistic grin on his face actually genuine, and the power was _wonderful._

It was unfortunate, how quickly it all just...fell apart.

Someone called out, a shout within the camp, and Maxwell was suddenly stumbling back as a spear anchored itself into one of his shadow clones.

Another went down as Willow reacted, tackled it to the ground, completely avoiding its useless sword and kicking it to oblivion as he reeled from the overstimulation the shadows conveyed, pains as one collapsed with its talons clasped against the spear embedded into it, the confusion and phantom pains thick in the air as he realized there were others around who had bore witness to the entire debacle.

It should be expected, that they wouldn't side with him. A part of him already knew the outcome, that he has never tried to get on their goodside, no matter how much he ended up hauling back to camp, the little things he's picked up and left in noticable areas for the others to find, these haunting moments out in the wilds that had him take up what couldn't quite be called "gifts", left around in places the giftee would certainly occupy, and his silence has always held thick in his throat but often times it was _the thought that counted._

He's done all these little things and he so absolutely hated how much he genuinely _cared_ about the lot of them, as aggressively unfriendly and crude as they could be, and yet it was apparently that it never mattered in the first place. If he didn't make it some theatrical dramatic deal, then no one would ever know, and no one would ever care.

And yet, experience told him it was a double edged sword. It was obvious that no one would ever accept a gift from him, nor accept the vague attempts of apologizing he was willing to hand over, as faint and torn as they were. There was no win win here.

As such, there just was no reason to even try, he realized, as he's always known really, he's always known, fallen to one knee as the last shadow was smushed into a oily pulp by the strongman, the confusion and yet guarded hostility, wishing to keep his friends safe, splayed clearly on his big face. 

Wigfrid was even more open in her intentions, slashed apart his doppelganger without a hint of hesitance, vicious and as violent as Willow as she gleefully smashed in another clones shaking, fetal positioned body with just her own fists and feet.

He knew he could control them better, could raise them up, fight back. He also knew, deeply well, just how terribly bad it would play out if he did so, if he got needlessly violent in self defence; any attempt after starting that would make everything all in vain. The phantom pains were still just aches, just shock that had him fall, and now scrambling up on shaking legs, trembling from the overuse of shadows and the jarring discardment of his own shadow sword, as the three turned to him with hostile, threatening glares, he automatically stumbled back.

"Yöu dare raise a hand tö anöther öf öur camp?" 

Wigfrids voice was loud, as always, loud but so deeply serious as Maxwell hesitantly took another step back, arms crossed over his chest as whatever was left in him pounded all too painfully from the shock of nightmare fuel use and the shadows quick dismissal, the violence of the acts themselves, and he could do nothing but stumble over a half snarled answer before someone else spoke up.

"Bad man tried to hurt Willow, yes?" It wasn't quite a question, the answer was already there, but Wolfgang asked it anyway, face serious and dark as he stared down at the former Nightmare King. "That not good, not good at all."

The threatening aure came down thicker, as Wigfrid took a step forward, as Willow followed suit with a wicked smile on her face, the click of her lighter briefly reminding him that he _had_ scared her, but it was useless now, no more gleeful threads of control for once in his fucking mess of a life, and Maxwell backed off even more, shoes squishing into the oil dampened grass and muck before hitting dry dirt again. 

A shiver of nerves, a wash of paranoia as his gaze flashed between the three of them, and very suddenly a dark pit opened up in his gut and Maxwell knew they would _kill_ him for this slight.

And there would be nothing he could say or do that would change that.

It solidified almost instantly, this thought, this realization, and he hugged himself tighter, going tense as he backed off from their threatening advance, an animal backed into the corner and ready to snap and bite and ravage and yet-

-he already knew there was not a thing he could do to them to stop them from _hurting_ him.

A shadow manifested, his will flaring up for a brief moment, and its wobbly rise distracted the lot of them good enough; Maxwell spun around and took off, as fast as his shaking legs could get him.

He felt it, when the shadow was murdered, this perfect copy of himself birthed for only a few light living seconds before a spear found its way within it and tore it apart, and the pain hit hard as faint as it was and made him stumble and lose his footing but panic held him in its clutches, panic and a desperate need to _get away_ , and so-

-Maxwell fled.


End file.
